Cycling
by RotatingWorld
Summary: Erica Hahn is a little too intense and also kind of gay. What does repressed gay longing lead to? Too much time at the gym, that's what. Erica/Callie aka Hahn/Torres, at least in Erica's head... Also, reviews make my world spin.
1. Cycling

Gripping the bars and pumping her legs, Erica pushed forward and powered through the cycling instructor's bark to give it her all. She didn't need any more encouragement. Any good cardiothoracic surgeon knows the importance of heart health and exercise, and any good dyke knows when she'd better blow off steam before she does something rash and irreversible. Her custom shoes hooked to the pedals, Erica gave in to the burn in her upper thighs, the pounding of her heart, her audible breaths. She closed her eyes and dipped her head, focused on the steady swish of the stationary bike's caged tire. All this effort and going nowhere. Despite her attempt to visualize the climb up a hill, reaching its crest, last night in Joe's unspooled in her mind and her pace spun out of control. That dumb laugh of denial. Callie's discomfort and ultimate relief. The whole fucking scene was an embarrassment.

"All right class!" the instructor shouted, "Dial down and give yourselves a break. Great job!"

The eager twenty-somethings flocking Erica's sides groaned with relief and sat up in their seats, stretching out their arms and enjoying the sudden ease of their task. Erica barely slowed before she unhooked her feet and swung her leg over the bike frame. She toweled down her seat and bars, met the instructor's drilling look with her own "I could care less" glance, and pushed out the door into the gym proper. In a matter of minutes she was in the changing room, out of her spandex, and in the shower. She cranked the handle until the water steamed and stepped under. "Damn," she said.

Spin wasn't her favorite activity, but she couldn't risk injury to her hands and therefore boxing was out of the question. Which really sucked, because she could have done with punching something. Repeatedly. For Erica Hahn, there was no greater disappointment than disappointing yourself, and as of late, Erica Hahn did not approve of Erica Hahn's behavior. And maybe worse than the constant self-reproach was the fact that she had found no way to empty her head, to get to that place where she did her clearest thinking, her best work. She wanted it. The automation of a surgical procedure, the utter confidence that she was doing exactly what was best for her patient, that she controlled everything – the nurses beside her, the pace of the surgery, the beat of the human heart.

Meanwhile, her own was rollicking in her chest. She caught herself holding her breath for far too long, getting dizzy for lack of oxygen. "Breathe," she chided herself, "breathe." She turned the tap and wrung out her hair. She looked herself over. Her body betrayed her. Even the scalding shower had failed to relax her, down to her tensed, perfect toes.

Erica Hahn wasn't getting any. This was par for the course. Erica had come to accept her lifestyle as a byproduct of her own decisions. She went to medical school, she avoided time-draining friendships, she had priorities, and sex was not one of them. When she got too lonely, she hit a bar, had a few glasses of wine, and picked someone up. At first it was men, then, somewhat surprisingly, it was women. That was better, and it was so easy. She knew what it was – not her effortless blond curls, not even her height. It was her voice. She exploited it, that sarcastic gravel. Those undertones. In the cab, on the way back to her apartment, she would whisper in the chosen woman's ear, she would let herself be…imaginative. For a night. And the next morning, she would get up, shower, make her fling a cup of coffee and have her out the door as soon as possible. Because any longer than that, and the women thought she owed them something. And the only person she owed was herself.

She hadn't hit up a bar since she started at Seattle Grace. Not with that intention anyway. Instead, she had made an error in judgement. She had invited Callie Torres into her life. And now, she wanted her. She wanted a straight, divorced _colleague._


	2. In Which Hahn Has A Very Busy Day

Securing her locker, Erica gives a cursory glance about the changing room. There's one of the bouncy young things from her class and an older woman with her swimsuit around her hips, toweling off after her early morning laps. Erica's noticed her before – there aren't too many regulars at this time of day. The woman catches Erica's eye and turns tighter into the row of lockers for modesty. "Oh please, lady," Hahn thinks, but instead of cracking smart about having seen better, she tosses a "Good morning" in the woman's direction as she heads out. That's one less strike against her.

Whereas her tenure at Mercy had been a steady test of endurance, an opportunity to craft and improve upon her surgical technique and not much more, the past few months at Seattle Grace have ratcheted up her compulsions. She's been lashing out in inappropriate ways, helpless to stop herself. She's been downright cruel to Yang. And after trying to make peace with the brown-nosing resident and being left with nothing but silence and a sour taste in her mouth, she understands she's doing permanent damage. To herself, and to others. Doctors, she chides herself, are meant to heal, not to harm.

Pushing into the lightening Seattle mist, Hahn realizes that she knows what to do. Anything, she decides, is better than this crippling inaction. She scrolls through her cell phone directory and finds the name she needs. She punches 'call' and waits for the inevitable kick to voicemail.

"Dr. Wyatt," she intones in her steady professional voice, "this is Erica Hahn. I'd like to move up my appointment. Are you free at all this morning? Please let me know at the number on file." She hangs up and looks around. Across the street and a few buildings down, a clique of bleary-eyed interns are pushing exhaustedly through the rotating doors of the hospital. She adjusts her purse on her shoulder and starts walking. She fills her lungs. Her heart steadies itself. It helps a little bit, that gesture. Reaching out. It's a new sensation that makes her, perhaps undeservedly, hopeful.

* * *

Erica shrugs off her lab coat and lays it over the back of Dr. Wyatt's hideous couch. She isn't quite comfortable here yet, and sits back against the cushions stiffly.

"Erica," Wyatt greets her, settling nimbly into her own chair opposite, "I'm pleased you called."

"I can't quite believe I got away. Walter Tapley's here."

Wyatt looks blankly across. "Who?"

"Walter Tapley." Nothing. Erica's taken aback. "He's a…you really don't know who he is?"

"Apparently not."

"He pioneered the double bypass technique, among other things. He's, he's a cardiothoracic _god_."

"Fascinating." Erica never knew that therapists were allowed to be funny, but she likes Dr. Wyatt.

"I'm supposed to kill him later."

Wyatt perks up a bit at that. Erica explains Richard's connection to Tapley and Tapley's condition, that the surgery he's demanding will almost certainly kill the man, and that despite her absolute refusal to wield the scalpel that claims his mentor's life, Richard's insistence.

Wyatt follows the story, nods, and lets the silence hang between them. Without realizing it, Erica has relaxed against those damn embroidered pillows.

"Erica," Wyatt finally pipes up, "You're leaving out the most important part."

"What? What part? I'm telling you exactly what happened not even an hour ago."

"The part where you won't admit it but you're absolutely dying, pardon the expression, to do it. To do the surgery. To test your skills. To test your boundaries."

"What?"

"That's not a very productive response, Erica."

Erica narrows her eyes. "I told you, I put my foot down. I said no."

"Hmm." Wyatt studies Erica's expression, the tightness around her eyes, her clenched jaw. The woman was made of determinism. "There can be, don't you think, a difference between what you insist on, and what you _want_?"

At that, there's an angry rap on the door. Erica's eyes fly to source of the sound.

"Erica?" Wyatt insists. There's more pounding, and louder. Wyatt telegraphs an apology and stands up to answer. "Let me just send them away."

* * *

"So what if you're right?" Erica recrosses her legs. "So what if I would give my left nut to cut open Walter Tapley? If he died, which he will, my reputation would go down the shitter."

"Your reputation."

"Yes."

"And that's the worst that could happen?" Wyatt's casual dismissal of something Erica has spent years to build is infuriating. Hahn sits forward again, channeling all of her frustration in the shrink's direction.

"You mean, besides a man dying? Losing one of the true giants of the field?"

"It's what he wants, isn't it? Tapley doesn't want to give in and wait to die. He wants to try. And he's asking for your help."

"I'm not discussing this anymore. I've studied his charts, I've made the logical decision. I'm not doing it."

"The logical decision. Your _reputation._ Those are very interesting words."

"Are you calling me a robot, Dr. Wyatt?"

"Erica, I don't care if you do it or not. Kill Tapley! Don't kill Tapley! I. Don't. Care."

"Then why are we still discussing this?"

"Well." Wyatt looks so pleased with herself, Erica can't stand it. "We're discussing it because you're the one who moved up your appointment. We could have talked about anything, but you chose to tell me about Tapley. We're discussing it because you _won't_ discuss Callie Torres. And lastly, Erica, we're discussing it because until you give yourself a fucking break, you're going to keep finding yourself in this exact situation, sitting across from me and doing battle with yourself."

Erica says nothing.

"I think that's enough for a morning, don't you?" Wyatt is unfolding her legs. "Good work today!"

Erica snatches up her coat and pulls it back on. Wyatt stands and smiles as Hahn walks forward. "And eat something, for goddsakes Erica, you're too pale."

"I'm from New England," Eric clips as she tugs the door handle and strides through, "that's just the color we are."

* * *

Hahn is in her office, and she's sitting there with her elbows on the table and her charts everywhere, and her hands over her eyes, and she's crying like a baby. And that's how Callie finds her.

"Erica!"

Erica hurriedly wipes her eyes and stands, starts restacking her clipboards, trying to conceal the evidence.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong."

Callie doesn't know how much she's allowed to push with Erica, how much she can ask. "It looks like something's wrong," she says, softly. Erica stops and captures her eye. How quickly she can right herself, Callie thinks. The only giveaways are the glittery salt tracks drying across her cheeks.

"I saved Walter Tapley's life today," Hahn states matter-of-factly. "I didn't want to, but I did."

Callie can't help it, she's smiling, and then Erica's smiling, and it's all right after all. "That's great," she says. "That's wonderful."

Erica is quiet, she's looking at Callie, and she knows Callie's right, and she can see so clearly that the woman standing across from her is honestly relieved. Honestly, deeply relieved. It's written across her face. I wish, Erica thinks, that I could do that, that I could give myself away with such ease. And she decides, with absolute certainty, the way she likes to decide things, that she will try harder.

"Ready to head out?" Callie asks.

"Definitely."


	3. In Which Hahn Gets Clean AND Dirty

Erica is taking a bath. It is very out of character. Baths are not efficient. You always end up filmed in suds and pruned and a little lightheaded. Or very lightheaded, if you have set your rather large glass of red wine beside the tub and are drinking that while you soak, against all common sense. But the water feels good. It has cooled into a tepid warm blanket kind of a thing, and don't her long, pale toes look sort of cute way down there at the tap end. It's an old bathtub, with cast iron fixtures and a plug on a chain, and battered feet, but it is Erica-sized, and even though she doesn't take baths, Erica may have paid far too much for the tub because of that very feature.

But it was worth it, Erica thinks, as she slides her soapy hand across her belly, as she bends her knees a bit more and lets her back slide down. As her hair, the one thing about which she is unabashedly vain, billows out around her head and her ears submerge.

She listens to the muted vibrations of the blues CD she's put on and feels the hum of her own body when she lifts her legs and soaps her sore calves, when she soaps her thighs and between her legs, when she lifts her bottom and pushes on her pelvis, and closes her eyes and lets the water still around her face.

She rests her hand there, below her belly, and plays with the clean little curls that feel so silky like this. Soft with shampoo. She thinks about the baby hairs around Callie's ears, and how she brushed them with her thumb as she kissed her. She thinks about how Callie's mouth tasted faintly of coffee, but not stale coffee, about how the other woman stopped breathing when their lips touched, but then started breathing again. About how she breathed in as Callie breathed out and then how Callie breathed in as she breathed out and leaned maybe imperceptibly into it, maybe just a little.

Her fingers are pushing in now slowly and her other hand is on her chest, pressing into the freckled skin above her heart. She can hear its beat in the water, faster now, more insistent. And then her fingers are two knuckles in, and out, in and out, leisurely, and her thumb is circling, not too much, she's going to take her time. She matches the drum of her heart, the bass from the song in the water, the sound of her breathing amplified in her ears. She can't make out the buzzing words, but they run through her mind because this is a song she knows.

…_No you don't know the one_

_Who dreams of you each night_

_And longs to kiss your lips_

_And longs to hold you tight_

_To you I'm just a friend_

_That's all I've ever been_

_No you don't know me_

She can feel her body responding. She plants her feet on the floor of the tub, her toes are curling against the porcelain and the barely perceptible blonde hairs on her thighs are rising in the cold air above the water and making her skin goosebump.

_I never knew the art of making love_

_Though my heart aches with love for you_

The muscles of her thighs are chords under her skin, straining and releasing, straining and releasing. She studied those muscles in med school. She knows the paths that lead from her nerve ends to her spinal column to her brain, the chemicals that swim to their receptors that make her moan from the back of her throat like that, the feedback system that means she's not in control of this, not really. She feels she is breathing out hot, condensing air. She curls her fingers more and adds another. Her knuckles cause her breath to hitch, and she knows she's helpless to stop it now.

_I'm afraid and shy_

_I let my chance go by_

_The chance that you might love me too_

_You give your hand to me and then you say goodbye_

_And then I watch you walk away_

_Beside the lucky guy_

_I know you'll never know_

_The one who loves you so_

_No you don't know me_

Her back muscles are tightening, her hand has moved from her chest, she's gripping the side of the tub, the once still water laps as she undulates, meeting her hand. She can't keep her head down, the water's getting in her open mouth, so she shifts up, she pushes her toes against the bottom of the tub. She's one clenched muscle, and her body has wound itself up tighter than she believes, all of it clamped in the base of her gut. And she can't stand it, she has to do something because it's painful it's so good. So she does. She pushes herself over with the fleshy pad of her thumb, the thumb that stroked Callie's cheek. And she unreels, and unreels, and unreels, and hears her heart pounding louder than ever, though that can't be, she's not under the water anymore, she's settling back into the tub. She leaves her fingers where they are, she feels the residual waves of her climax tense around her.

Slowly her mind refocuses, she can hear the words of the song now, and she was right, she knew them all.

Should she feel guilty? She doesn't. She feels better. She feels like some of the chill Seattle mornings, some of the waking up alone, some of the cold kitchen tiles and long hours and silent phones have been pushed out of her. Erica Hahn, she tells herself, you are built for this. You are smart and strong and capable. You can make changes. And she knows how to do it. She'll start with Callie Torres.

Sometime, maybe not tomorrow, but sometime soon, she would take her out. She would kiss her, properly. Not in an elevator. And she thought maybe Callie would lean in again just a little bit, just a little bit more.


	4. In Which We Learn More About Hahn

When I was a child, my mother would sometimes pack our overnight bags and load me into our compact to drive us ten hours along the backroads from Boston to rural Pennsylvania, where my Great Aunt Lindy lived. Her brick home overlooked a hayfield which has since been razed, leveled with fill, and replanted with tidy rows of cookie cutter McMansions. But back then, her house seemed a million miles away from the life I knew, filled with schedules and classes and rigor.

Lindy's home was full of small treasures – a cut glass bowl of chocolate candies, a busy hummingbird feeder filled with ruby liquid, and pitchers of the most perfect sweet tea, which she would pour into mason jars frosty from the freezer. And trunks of my mother's old playthings. Dolls with eyes that blinked to sleep when you cradled them, real wooden Lincoln Logs faded from countless miniature construction projects, and Christmas tins of marbles that the scrappy, girl version of my mother had systematically won from the neighbors over the summers she lived there.

There were big monster marbles in swirling carnival hues and mesh bags of tiny matching sets in pale yellows, bubblegum pinks. Each time we visited, I would pocket one and smuggle it home to add to my box of valuables alongside my father's purple heart and obituary, my mother's elementary school portrait.

I used to think I was like those stolen glass spheres. Solid. Powerful when wielded with purpose and capable of pushing through a line of less carefully placed marbles. Pretty enough to look at, but cold against the palm.

Now I don't think I'm a marble at all. I'm a robin's egg, and Callie has cracked me wide open. And when she kisses me and I kiss her back, and the knot that has lodged itself under my sternum over the course of this shitty day finally dissolves, I know I'll start gooing my damaged, eggy self all over the hospital sidewalk.

And even though this is what I want, it's been given to me too fast, just handed to me at the most nothing moment, which has suddenly turned into a something moment. I've never had vertigo, but I think this may be what it's like, when the ground slips out from beneath you and your stomach drops and god help you, you're going to grab hold of whatever you can reach, damn the consequences. My hands are on her warm skin, and one has migrated between her leather jacket and her teeshirt, and I don't remember how that happened, and I can sense her hips, like magnets, inches from mine, and she's biting a little at my bottom lip as she pulls away. She's looking me square in the eye, and I hadn't noticed before, but there are bronze flecks around her pupils. Yes, I am positively cracked.

I think about the hardness pushing against my knee and sink onto the bench before I can comprehend that it's a bench. My mind is lagging a few seconds behind my body. Callie's still standing there watching me and I know she's said her piece in her own way, and I should say something, something other than "Finally."

"Breathe, Erica," she tells me, "You're turning blue."

Is that why my head feels all gauzy? I force myself to inhale. Yes, it does help. Callie moves my briefcase aside and sits down next to me. I'm still stuck for words, which, let me tell you, does not happen. Ever. It's sort of my thing. But I'm stuck now and I think it's freaking Callie out as much as it is me.

"Sorry," she says, " I, um, I didn't know I was going to molest you in the parking lot."

"Yeah, uh…" My jaw isn't working right, and my lips are actually tingling, like I've just kissed a really hot pepper, one of those little innocuous-looking ones they warn white people about in authentic Spanish restaurants.

"I mean, I just wanted to take you to Joe's maybe, so we could, you know, talk like adults, adults with tequila shots, and I really didn't want to be a chicken, like cement boy, or maybe you were like cement boy and I was his bitchy crush who just needed to get over myself, but then I didn't want to assume that you were cement boy, because, um, maybe you're like, celibate? And that whole elevator thing? I mean, I'm not a lesbian!"

She has over-rambled herself, but somehow the psychobabble makes total sense to me and I think in the meantime I've even regained control of my mouth. I should try forming a sentence.

"Sorry," she repeats, and plants her hands on her thighs, which are very nice and very jean-clad. Wait. I think maybe she's leaving? Why is she leaving? I should really, really say something. Anything.

"You sure kiss like a lesbian."

She stops there, half off the bench. She risks a look back down at me, finally meeting my eyes, and yes, she looks relieved. She smiles despite herself, in that awkward half-sit. The woman must have thighs of steel.

"It was okay? With you, I mean."

"Callie, sit down." She inches back onto the bench and starts worrying the hem of her shirt.

"But was it okay?"

"Yes. I think so. Yes."

"You're not celibate?"

"I don't think so."

Now she's the one taking the ridiculously deep breath. "That's really good news, because man, you would not _believe_ what I've been thinking all day, and in kind of a lot of detai…"

She sees me following her babble. "Nevermind."

"Do you want to come to my place?"

The fear flashes across her face, and I know what she has assumed – she's just braved the shallows and I'm tossing her into the deep end. "Listen," I tell her, "I could use a stiff drink after today, and maybe you could too. And if we go to Joe's, then one of us has to stay, you know, some semblance of sober. And I have a very nice couch. So. No pressure. You don't have to become a full-blown lesbian in one day."

"I don't?"

"Of course not."

She gets up and I realize that she's kind of a mess. Her hair is out of control. I guess I did that? She starts pulling it back into a makeshift ponytail, a little shakily, but with determination.

"Okay then."

"Okay?"

"Yes, okay, I will go back to your house and we will not have gay sex."

That's kind of funny, and I think I'm doing that thing where I quirk my eyebrow, so I tell myself to quit it. Now is not the time to say something stupid and scare her off. "Okay then."

Now she's straightening her jacket, and she catches me watching as her hands tug the leather into place. She blushes.

"Um, ready?"

It seems I haven't moved.

"I, uh…"

"If you change your mind I could just, you know, go home."

"No, I…"

"I mean, I don't really like Yang's couch more than any other couch, but if –"

"Callie!" I snap her out of it.

"Yeah?"

"I haven't changed my mind. I just don't know where I put my keys. Give me a sec."

"Oh. Keys. They're in your slacks. Back pocket."

Now I'm off the bench and patting myself down and damn if she's not right.

"How…"

"I, um, felt them there."

She looks at me, her face stiff with embarrassment and turning an even deeper shade of olive, and she's obviously as cracked as I am. We are two cracked eggs. And despite ourselves, we're both laughing out of tension, or relief, or maybe both. I turn and take a step toward my parking spot, and the ground is there again, solid and reassuring beneath my feet. It's time to go home.


	5. In Which Hahn Wakes Up

Callie Torres is, believe it or not, an early riser. She got into the habit one summer when, without a job or internship and wanting to avoid getting roped into her mother's social events, she'd rise at dawn and drive into the foothills for a climb before the heat of the day descended like a stifling wool blanket. Sometimes she'd convince a friend to come along, sometimes she'd risk it and go at alone. And although she hardly ever climbs anymore, she likes to think of herself in that context. At her strongest. Her head clear. Holding to a rockface with all her focus, all her willpower.

And so, despite the glasses of tequila fine enough to sip, despite the late hour at which Erica finally left her to the couch and turned off the streaming blues station, despite the fact that it's Saturday and she doesn't need to go in to work, Callie is awake before 9. And perhaps because the tequila was so fine, and the blues so good, she feels not hung over, not tired, not even a little confused or out of place on the massive cream sofa in Hahn's living room, wearing another woman's college ringer. She feels refreshed - strong and at peace. She feels like her younger self. The pre-med school, pre-Seattle, pre-George self. The best version of herself.

Erica Hahn is certainly an early riser. But when your guest is drinking tequila and you've opened a bottle of red, when the tannin and easy conversation and blues makes your eyelids heavy, and there's a beautiful girl breathing lightly on your couch down the hall, when all of these events conspire to keep you in bed, flirting with a pleasant dream, in bed is where you stay.

And when the mattress dips just a little at the foot of the bed, when someone crawls up next to you, trying to keep quiet, you don't question it. You don't wonder why or who or how. You breathe in the fresh scent of your pillow and delight in the feel of the clean cotton sheet hugging your shoulders. You let yourself return to the dream.

When that who is whispering your name, when you realize you're not in some gossamer dream world but in bed, in your bed, you open your eyes. You see the woman stretching out next to you in the Johns Hopkins shirt that's so worn through it's barely a tissue floating over her caramel skin.

"Callie?" The gravel in your voice is even more pronounced in the morning.

"Morning."

You roll off your stomach and automatically search out a set of glaring red digits. Your eyes aren't quite focused yet. "What time is it?"

"Not sure."

"Did you get paged?"

"Nope."

"Did I get paged?"

"Nu-uh."

You relax back into your pillow, satisfied that you're not sleeping through some poor family's cardiac crisis. You give yourself a moment to just take in the morning, the bed, the whirring fan overhead, the warm body splayed out across from you.

"I guess I got you into bed after all."

Her smirks look even more devious in the morning. "Looks like."

"How was the couch?"

"Good."

"Good."

It may be the remnants of sleep or your half-lucidity, or it may be that she really is shifting closer. You force your morning brain to make some calculations. There was a foot and a half of sheet between us but now there's only six inches which equals closer.

"It was good," she repeats, and drops an octave. "But this is better."

She's hovering above you – definitely, definitely closer – and there's a devilish glimmer in her eye.

"Callie…" you warn her.

"Shut up before I lose my nerve."

You do. You shut up. Because her mouth is on yours and her hand is running up the white underside of your arm. She's smiling into your mouth. You can feel the corners of her mouth curling up. The kiss is light and sweet, and when she breaks it you wonder, when was the last time I was kissed like that? You can't recall. Callie's perched above you, her hands on either side of your pillow, and when you look down to take it all in, you find yourself staring straight down the stretched-out neck of your tee, down to where her dark, perfect nipples are flirting with the cotton.

"Oh God," you croak before you can check yourself. Callie, whose eyes haven't left your face, follows your gaze. The silence hangs between you.

"Huh," she mutters.

And that's when you know you've made a misstep. You've made it too real for her. This isn't just some post-sleepover teen girl experimentation. Yes, you're really a woman, and yes she's really in your bed, turning you on.

She sits up.

"Callie," you start to apologize, to pave the road down which she can back out at full speed. You start to sit up, to regain some sense of perspective. But something solid - Callie's hand - is spread across the middle of your chest and pushing you back down.

"Don't."

This is the problem with orthopedists. They are so damn strong. You stop fighting against her palm.

"Now, stay."

She's giving you commands like a freaking puppy and you know you're not yourself this morning, because if you were yourself, you'd be up and out of there and not doing as she says and waiting for your praise like a whipped dog.

You guess she understands that she's running the show because she peels her palm from the center of your tank top. She doesn't hesitate. She finds the hem of her tee with both hands and pulls it over her head. She tosses it aside. It lands half off the mattress and hangs there for a second before falling off to puddle on the floor in a heap of finality.

"There," she says.

That's it. You're no one's puppy. You're sitting up and your hand is behind her neck, pulling her to you. And then she's sliding her knee over and sitting in the crook between your pelvis and thighs. But you only feel the heavy, insanely erotic pressure as she settles her weight there, pinning you to the mattress. You don't see it. You don't see anything.

* * *

There are certain problems inherit with unplanned makeout sessions in bed. Namely, sheets. Namely, you are under one, getting increasingly more tangled, and Callie is not.

"I'm stuck," you finally sputter out as she relinquishes your lips to go to work on an earlobe.

She lets your earlobe slip from between her lips for a moment. "I know." She takes it up again, then blazes a trail down your neck to your clavicle. You try to center yourself and test your extremities. The sheet is snaked around your ankle and plastering your legs down.

"This is not a metaphor, Callie."

"Hmmm" she buzzes into your throat.

"I'm stuck in the sheet."

"I. Said." She punctuates her words with a long, wet kiss against your pulse point, "I. Know." Callie seems quite at ease with your restricted movement. In fact, she may be relishing it. At the rate she's going, she's going to give you a hickey. Hickeys are not very professional. Action must be taken.

"Callie," you put one hand on her shoulder. Without breaking her contact with your neck, she finds your wrist with her free hand and pins it above your head, where your fingers twitch helplessly. She is not making this easy for you.

"Okay, that's it." Summoning your resolve, you use your leg muscles, rock solid from your prolonged bout of sexually repressed cycling, to propel your lower body out of the warm pocket you've been molded into. You swing your left leg over and Callie is effectively caught off guard because her tongue is no longer circling on your neck and she's flat on her back like a stunned turtle, your positions reversed.

The woman below you is pulsing with heat. You can feel it emanating from her skin. And this day could get very complicated - even more complicated - very quickly, if you let it. "You're very good at that," you tell her, trying to keep your tone steady.

She relaxes into her new position, her breasts balancing in perfect rounded peeks above her rib cage. "I knew you were a top."

"What?"

"Isn't that what it's called? I read this thing online –"

"Yes, that's what it's called."

"Well, I knew you were one."

"I'm not a top."

"I beg to differ." She pushes her knee up into your crotch for emphasis and your mind momentarily blanks. Momentarily.

"Okay, we have to stop."

"What?! Just when you're getting all sexily aggressive?"

You push the big, floppy bangs out of her eyes. "Yes."

"Is this the, um, what do they call it….lesbian bed death?"

"Oh my god. _What_ website were you reading?"

"Wikipedia?"

"You wikipedia-ed 'Lesbian Sex'?"

"Maybe."

"This is not lesbian bed death, okay, this is just…..a pause."

"We're pausing?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Well, for one, you're giving me a hickey..."

"I know!"

"…And we're not in high school. For two –"

"No, I want to debate number one."

"You don't get to debate these. For two, you are starving."

"No I'm not." At that, Callie's stomach makes a deep gurgling rumble. "Okay, I'm a little hungry."

"Number three is, there's no number three. But the first two reasons are good enough. So we're going to put on some clothes – don't give me that look – and go get some food. And coffee. I need coffee." At that, you peel yourself off of her before you can second-guess yourself.

"I hope you know what you're doing, Miss Bossy Bossy. You have a hot chick in your bed and you're talking about coffee!"

"Oh trust me," you tell her, bending over her tangled, sprawled form in your bed, and planting the kiss of all lingering kisses on her swollen lips, "I _know_ what I'm doing."

You leave her wordless in bed and peel off your tank as you make your way to the master bath. Now that's how you top a woman.


End file.
